Darken into Nightmare
by Chios
Summary: Harry finds himself sucked through space and time into a reality very different from his own. Voldemort never defeated. His parents alive. Aurors who are out for his blood. What kind of a world has Harry come to?
1. Arrive

**_This story is based in the Harry Potter fandom, and is not meant to offend any readers. If you _are_ offended you have no obligation to continue reading. I do not own Harry Potter or any of the related material or franchise, and no infringement is intended. This story contains spoilers for the SIX current Harry Potter books. The Italicised section at the beginning is taken directly from The Half-Blood Prince. _**

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**ARRIVE**

…_Once back under the starry sky, Harry heaved Dumbledore on to the top of the nearest boulder and then to his feet. Sodden and shivering, Dumbledore's weight still upon him, Harry concentrated harder than he had ever done upon his destination: Hogsmeade. Closing his eyes, gripping Dumbledore's arm as tightly as he could, he stepped forwards into that feeling of horrible compression…_

Harry realised that the world was beginning to spin in a way not normally associated with apparation. The sensation his confused head felt seemed similar to spiralling dizzily around and around, the circles becoming smaller and smaller as he reached the centre of some magical whirlpool. _What will happen when I reach the middle? _was where his confused analogy came to an abrupt end.

The normal pressure of apparation sucked the air around him stronger than ever before, compressing around his chest until he was sure his lungs didn't have enough power to fill themselves back up. The weight from Professor Dumbledore was still there, and Harry felt panic like he never had before begin to fill his chest. What had he done? Was this what splinching felt like? How the hell had he managed to splinch both himself and Professor Dumbledore at such a vital time?

Suddenly, it got worse.

The intense pressure that apparation normally caused tightened around his body to an unbearable extreme point. Pain flared up like fire in every part of his body. It ignited on every available surface – he could imagine that bathing in acid would be a similar experience. He opened his mouth to scream, but the pain seemed to enter, flowing down his throat like some cruel imitation of a medicine. It managed to reach a threshold of pain only rivalled by the Crucius curse, his whole body felt as though it was being torn to shreds, the whirlpool he had imagined in his mind becoming a howling vortex of nothingness.

He couldn't think. He couldn't breathe. He was sure his heart had stopped beating, sure the nerve centre in his brain must soon short-circuit. He couldn't see anything, comprehending only pain. The only thing he felt was worse than Voldemort's cruellest torture methods. The only sound a voice screaming in the background… his own? The only taste was the blood chocking down his throat. The only smell was death.

This was no splinch.

Suddenly, painful in its shock, he became numb.

The pain stopped, and an uncomfortable, uneasy nothingness replaced it. He registered himself give a choked sob, the blood still lingering in his mouth sliding bitterly down his throat. Was he alive, or could he have died from pain? Never before had he felt so much pain. Never again, he vowed, would he allow it to happen. He could hear nothing, he could hear more than nothing. He could not see. There was no blackness, no light. Merely the knowledge that sight did not exist.

How long he hung there, senses suspended, remained a mystery. It seemed as much like moments passed as it did days. Slowly, as he lay, remembering the pain. Hating the pain. The numbness began to fade away.

There was the sense of falling, the wind both stinging and calming the wounds and abrasions Harry was beginning to feel again before he hit the ground. He had enough time to peel his eyes open and not recognise his surroundings, before a dizzying, exhausting darkness surrounded him completely, and all consciousness abandoned him.

Besides him, lay the equally battered form of an equally unconscious Professor Dumbledore.

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When his eyes eventually peeled open, he found himself starring up at the bluest of all skies. The sun was already directly overhead, its midday rays beating down on his battered body. Sunshine reflected straight into his eyes, and spots of white continued to dance in his vision once he had closed his eyes tightly, biting his cracked lips.

The warmth of the sunlight as it lit upon the rest of his body felt like real magic, healing his wounds, revitalizing him. His head began to clear, and his teeth slowly unclenched. It gave him enough energy to take a deep, lung searing breathe, and pull himself up into a sitting position.

Either the oxygen or the sudden movement went straight to his head, and the white sun dots returned, this time accompanied by darker patches, obscuring his sight. He collapsed back down, eyes watering in pain as his tenuous grasp on consciousness wavered.

Minutes passed him by as he lay, eyes glued together with sticky tears, gathering the courage to try again. He listened to the slow sounds of a town going sluggishly about its business, registering that he must have made it to Hogsmeade after all. He didn't know what could have possibly gone wrong: none of his teachers had ever mentioned anything other than splinching as a danger in apparating. It wasn't like you couldn't carry a passenger, either. He himself had been transported as a hang-on while someone else apparated, and if it had any extra dangers, he was sure he would have been warned.

The warmth of the sun indicated that he'd been unconscious all night, and anyone had yet to find him.

He dragged himself backwards until he was able to lean against the wall of the alley he appeared to be in. The shadow of the awning cooled his face and soothed the beating headache he was starting to feel. He let out a sigh of relief as the support allowed him to finally catch a non-painful glance at his surroundings.

Apart from him, the alley was exactly as an alley should be.

Dusty cobbled stones and a few worn posters flaking off the walls proclaiming: _'Winnie and the Werewolves: Live in concert!'_ The date on the silently cheering wizard's poster told him that the concert had been performed almost three years ago. There was nothing else of any note at all. Harry closed his eyes in confusion, mentally calming his jagged nerves. Rationality may not work as well as it did in the muggle world, but that wasn't to say it was non-existent in it' magical counterpart.

_Dumbledore_! Harry's eyes flew open as any semblance of calm fled. _Where is Dumbledore?!_

The last Harry remembered was the pain of his apparation – he could distinctly recall the weight he had refused to let go of. He was sure that however he had landed where he was; he had _not_ left Dumbledore behind. Yet the old wizard was no where to be seen.

There was no doubt in Harry's mind that Dumbledore would never have left him where he was. If it had been within his power, Albus Dumbledore would have taken Harry to Hogwarts immediately. And yet he was not there. This conviction led to only one possible conclusion: Albus Dumbledore had been _unable _to take care of Harry.

Horrible thoughts drifted through Harry's mind: was Dumbledore _dead_? Had the unexpected results of Harry's attempt at apparating killed the greatest wizard in known history? By rights, if Harry had felt the intense pain of the apparation then surely Dumbledore must also have. But it still didn't explain where the old wizard was!

Unless Harry was wrong, and he hadn't dragged Albus through the tempest after all. Unless Harry had dropped him; left him behind in his weakened state to fall prey to the swirling, viciousness of that inbetween place!

_Now, _Harry thought to himself, _is finally the time to panic!_

The sound of footsteps at the end of the alley didn't help his alarm, and his breathing became shallower and shallower. Dizziness clouded his mind once more, and he didn't have time to realize that he was hyperventilating.

For the second time that day, Harry felt himself sinking into unconsciousness, barely aware of the consequences his actions could have.

At the other end of the street a small girl was peeking around the corner, curious as to what exactly Harry was.

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"Mummy," she said, trotting back to the flustered witch a few steps behind, "what's that down there?" she asked. The witch gave her an exasperated look as she adjusted the bags she was carrying, looking around nervously. She barely spared her daughter another glance as her hand never strayed too far from her wand.

"What's what down where, darling?" she asked distractedly.

The girl, honey blond pigtails swinging ran back to the entrance of the alley, and pointed down. Her blue eyes evaluated the object solemnly.

"It looks like a body, mummy." She said, her enthusiasm fading slightly.

In an instant her mother's attention snapped back to her.

"Don't go near it!" the witch said sharply, having followed her daughter to see what the girl was talking about. She pulled the daughter away, pushing herself in front as though to protect the child from something.

Nothing moved, and the girl whimpered.

The mother turned back to the daughter, angling her body so that she could keep track of the body out of the corner of her eye. Her mind was racing through the ministries brochure list, wondering where the brochure entitled: _'What do to when you find a body in a back-alley of Hogsmeade'_.

"Stay here, Jemma." She instructed the child severely, not wanting her daughter to see what could very possibly be a dead body.

Five minutes later, the floo at St. Mungo's flared up brightly and three figures stumbled out.

"Look I need to get this guy to a healer," the woman said once she reached the counter, Jemma hanging off her pocket. She was supporting Harry completely, holding the still unconscious man up.

The receptionist looked up blandly, barely looking at the unconscious teenager.

"Well you've certainly come to the right place. We have a few of those here," she said patronizingly, curling her hair with a manicured nail.

"He's unconscious!" Jemma cried, pointing an accusing finger between the receptionist and Harry.

"If he's unconscious then I suppose he's at the top of the list," the blonde admitted ungraciously, "so take him through that door. Someone will ask you for your details. Next!"

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The next thing Harry knew, the cotton wool clouding his mind was starting to leave. He was uncomfortably reminded that this was the third time he had awoken from unconsciousness in what he assumed was twenty-four hours. It was an improvement from the last time, though: his lips were no longer cracked and dry, his breathing was coming easily and the permanent pounding in his head had retreated to a dull ache. He could smell the slight bitterness of hospital antiseptic potions wash over him, and he inhaled. He was relieved to realize he must be in the hospital wing.

He opened his eyes slowly, constantly amazed at the capabilities of magic. Wincing, he realized that a pain potion could have been administrated, and the affects could wear off at any time.

There was a curtain hiding the rest of the wing from view, although he could see indistinct bustling shadows reflected onto the white fabric. He fumbled at the side-counter for his glasses, and slid them on, mind churning his memories of the last few hours over.

He still didn't know where Dumbledore was.

A certain type of dread ignited in the pit of his stomach, bubbling up through his chest. He had just realized that he could not possibly be in the hospital wing.

The roof was white-washed clean, the high ceilings and wooden beams were nowhere to be seen. The curtain was an off-green, different again to the white sheets of Hogwarts. The floor looked plastic, shining up at him in mockery.

"You're awake then, are you?" a gentle voice asked him. The curtains pulled back to reveal what seemed to be a bustling ward of St. Mungos.

There was a tall and familiar healer standing at the end of his bed, leaning down to glance at what Harry guessed would be his chart. Harry squinted at the man when he straightened back up, sure that he had seen him somewhere before.

"You're in St. Mungos, but really you can leave anytime. You're all fixed up," the man said, pausing. Harry wondered exactly how to respond to this dismissal. The healer clearly saw his confusion, and laughed easily. "If you want to stay any longer than three hours, then they'll start charging you real galleons. Not trying to kick you out, but you're perfectly good to go."

Harry finally found his voice.

"What was, uh, wrong with me?" he questioned hesitantly. He was beginning to get the impression that something was drastically wrong. Glaring inconsistencies were appearing in his mind, and now that he felt physically a lot better, he was able to focus on them.

Dumbledore would not have left him alone in a street, nor would he have taken him to the public magical hospital. Even if Harry had been taken there by accident, the fact was that the Order would have retrieved him by now, if they'd known where he was. Which left him with two possibilities: the Order couldn't retrieve him, or they didn't know he was missing.

The healer had pulled out his wand and summoned the chart, apparently too lazy to walk around the bed and pick it up. Harry felt a twinge of jealousy at the instinctive use of magic.

"Well. Best as the nurse could tell you were just physically exhausted. Had a concussion," he tapped his wand against the clipboard absently, "nothing broken. No recent traces of any common curses on you. Apparently, it was like you hadn't slept for several days," he looked at Harry, silently asking if this was correct.

But Harry didn't notice the unasked question in the healer's eyes; he was feeling sick again. The kind of sick that some called fear – it was what he felt when he wondered what had happened to Dumbledore. What if Harry had been wrong, again? What if, rather than just passing out for the night and waking up the next morning, he had actually been out of it for days?

It might explain the absence of the Order, possibly even account for Dumbledore's disappearance.

And if that was true, then he had an unknown amount of time to account for, and not a single memory to go by.

Seeing he wasn't about to receive an answer, the healer asked outright: "Do you know why you could have ended up here?"

There was something strange about the whole situation. It was not only the disappearance of Dumbledore, the unaccounted time gap, as well as his strange and nonsensical symptoms. There was something about everything that felt _wrong._

"I can't remember," he answered, completely honestly, "but I think you were right before – I'm not going to stay. I don't really have any money,"

The look healer's face had changed to one of worry.

"You can't remember? If you can't remember then maybe you would like to stay, we might have missed something," he said, and Harry was again reminded of someone he knew. Seeing Harry's hesitation, if not understanding the reason for it, the healer homed in. "It's better to be safe than sorry."

Harry was about to open his mouth again when shouts from down the corridor diverted both their attentions. A short woman, who reminded him instantly of Mrs. Weasley, burst into the wing, scattering patients and healers alike.

"I need all available interns and healers! The Barnaby Ward – pronto!" she shouted, before whirling back out, leaving the wing in carefully controlled chaos.

Harry's healer was looking as though he didn't believe it was coincidence.

"Well I guess you're off the hook. You must have a guardian angel looking over you, buddy," he grumbled, hanging the chart up at the end of the bed, "I _strongly_ recommend you to stay, but I have to go and help them." He turned, shaking his head, and left at a run before Harry could say anything else.

Guardian angel or not, Harry didn't feel like sticking around.

Grabbing his wand from the bedside-table, and checking that he was still wearing his dirty school robes, Harry apparated away. He was immensely relieved, for the first time ever, to feel the expected compression.

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**_That's the whole chapter, composed in a physics lecture(I'm trapped in that room until the administration realize that I don't belong there) and squeezed in during the few chances I get to write something for leisure. _**


	2. Closer

**_Feel free to hate all Physics professors, as they are murdering your pet._**

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**CLOSER**

Harry appeared at the end of Grimauld Place unnoticed. The street was utterly silent, there were no children playing in the gardens of the place, and none of the curtains so much as twitched as he began to slowly walk along the muggle street. He noticed, with no small amount of apprehension, 'for sale' signs lining the houses on either side of him. They certainly hadn't been there the last time he had visited.

The second strange thing about the street was twelve Grimauld Place itself. He could see the ancient and most noble house of Black from several of the deserted houses away, something the fidelus curse should not have allowed.

Harry slid his wand out, fingering it nervously as he approached the front door.

He reached up and rapped on the door loudly, hearing the echo of his knocks reverberate around the lobby.

There was no reply. The silence was stony as Harry waited for someone, anyone, to answer the door.

If Grimauld Place was empty then he really may have to go to Hogwarts. He knocked again and slid down to sit on the doorstep, determined to collect his thoughts. The silence continued stubbornly until Harry was certain there was no one inside the house.

As far Harry could see it there were four main dilemmas: Where was Dumbledore? What had that horrible mis-apparation been? Why had no one contacted him? And, of less importance, how long had he been out of it?

If Harry didn't know better, he would almost say that he had gone back in time. His head perked up at the thought; it would certainly explain a few of his problems. Traveling through time would clearly be a trying business, and no one would know him to be able to contact him. It had holes the size of Antarctica, but it was the best theory he had so far.

First order of business would be to discover the date.

Harry had not been brought up as a wizard, so he understood few of the fundamental ideals that functioned throughout the society. One prominent concept was that time-travel was practically, and theoretically, impossible. The residue of the past could cling to a person for hours at the most, which was what fueled and allowed the hour-long time pieces which were ministry supervised. But going into the past for any longer than twelve hours was assured death, as magic disintegrated and rearranged its molecular structure through the amount of sheer energy required for such a leap.

Wherever he was, however he had gotten there, Harry was beginning to realize that he needed to contact his friends. The Order were also high on his priority list, but in all honesty, his friends would always come first.

The reluctance he felt towards contacting anyone was strange to him. It was more than a want for seclusion – it was an inbuilt _instinct _that was warning him that sending an owl out to Ron was _not the right thing to do_.

He returned his thoughts to his first and biggest problem: the location of Dumbledore.

Harry scratched his chin as he thought about the problem. Everything had suddenly become alien. The very idea that Dumbledore would leave him alone and unconscious in an alleyway was just as ludicrous as the concept of anyone sufficiently wounding Dumbledore enough that he would be unable to help Harry.

More than anything it was this that led Harry to believe that something quite out of the ordinary was going on. Something that you didn't read about in textbooks every day, something that was so unlikely, possibly even thought impossible, that it would never occur to him until it was too late.

_Proceed with caution_, his body warned him.

Perhaps the best thing to do would be to contact Dumbledore rather than his friends. If there was anyone who would know about the curious feeling of foreboding that was rising within him, it would be the Headmaster. The only person even almost rivaling Dumbledore for wisdom would be Flamel, and he had passed away now that the philosopher's stone had been destroyed.

Harry dug around in his pockets and finally pulled out two galleons, seven sickles and fourteen knuts. It was enough to get him an owl to Dumbledore, if he were brave enough to try Diagon Ally. Although, honestly, if he was trying (for whatever insane reason) to be inconspicuous, going to the busiest public place in the European wizarding world would not be the best way to go about it.

The crack of apparation startled him out of his reverie.

Harry looked up, wand in hand, expecting to see Tonks or Remus. Instead, he saw the scowling face that bore a striking resemblance to Sirius'. The man marched up the steps angrily, clearly not noticing Harry sitting on the doorway as he muttered under his breathe.

He almost tripped over Harry before he noticed the teenager was there.

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" he asked furiously, clearly pleased to be able to latch onto an outlet for his anger: Harry. For a second, Harry was sure he was about to be kicked, but he scrambled up quickly.

"Who are you?" Harry asked bluntly, discretely pointing his wand at the heart of the dark-haired stranger. The man noticed this aggressive action belatedly, and his face instantly became one of surprise. Harry's pounding heart was the only thing that stopped him from chuckling at the look of shock that crossed the mans face.

"Thought you were a muggle, for a second," the wizard explained, somewhat less angry. "Would have been in trouble it you'd been one of _them_." He finished shiftily, eyes flickering over Harry's jeans and shirt (Harry had removed his school cloak, the afternoon sun too warm).

Harry didn't like the way he said '_them_', as if the muggles were a different species. As best he could remember, the only people to classify 'us' and 'them' were ones who would eventually persecute the 'others'.

"Wizard." Harry confirmed, "but who the hell are _you_, and why are you here?"

The wizard's resemblance to Sirius was beginning to affect Harry. He didn't know why, but there was something he should be noticing about this person. He just couldn't put his finger on it.

The wizard was beginning to look annoyed again. He was wearing expensive looking black robes with a deep blue trim. The sleeves were rolled up on both arms, revealing pale and unscarred skin. Suspicion would have been deflected from the man immediately – wearing robes designed to show him as unmarked instantly creating the impression that he wasn't.

There was something about the shimmering on his arms that began to distress Harry, although the teenager hid it well.

"Look, kid. I live here. This is my house and I think I'm far more entitled to know why you're sitting on my doorstep in ugly mudblood clothes insulting the hell out of me! If you don't even know who I am, then you're not here to speak with me – so fuck off!" he said angrily, going to push past, and Harry almost felt his heart sink. He was certain now that the man in front of him was a Death Eater: the purist lingo, the charms on his forearms, the general sneering countenance.

But apparently the Death Eater didn't know who Harry was, and if anything, Harry wanted to get a name. He decided to change tactics.

"Look, sorry. I didn't mean to be rude or anything," he said, softening his voice appropriately, "I'm lost, and I don't know where I am, I just saw this house and thought it was pretty obviously magical. I'm Thomas, by the way." Harry bullshited, secretly in awe of how honest he was managing to sound.

The Death Eater's face had softened and he nodded, glancing around, seemingly buying Harry's story.

"Muggle places all look the same to me too. You're in London, you know that much at least? And it's Regulus." He said.

Harry _felt _the blood drain out of his face. The other man, _Regulus, _noticed his strange reaction, and suspicious tainted his handsome face once more. Harry shook his head in an attempt to clear his mind, wondering how a dead man could possibly be talking to him. Although Harry had little doubt the man was Sirius's brother, how he hadn't seen the resemblance between them was a mystery. _You see what you want to see_, he supposed.

"Something wrong, Thomas?" Regulus hedged, while Harry noticed the emergence of a fine deep cherry wand held in sweating fingers.

"It seems so unlikely to be coincidence" Harry confirmed, him mind whirring with ways to get out of this situation alive. As yet the Death Eater didn't know who Harry really was, and he didn't know that Harry knew what he was. There was a theory stating that by stretching the truth to an unbelievable extent it became believable through simple disbelief that anyone would try and come up with such a ridiculous story. Harry calmed his beating heart and gathered his thoughts once more.

"But I had an uncle name Regulus, and he died about six months ago. I mean, it's not that common a name, and you even look like him." Harry thought of Sirius, and the laughter that had been cut short as he fell through the veil. "I mean, that's just freaky, even by wizarding standards."

Regulus was watching him closely, clearly trying to judge the truth in Harry's words. A feeling of relief swept through the teenager as Regulus nodded.

"Terrible." He said, not sounding like it was the least bit terrible. "You might want to catch the Knight Bus. You'll just need to name of the place you're going then, surprised you didn't think of it yourself," Regulus finished, eyes narrowing in suspicion once more. But Harry was feeling strangely confident.

"It was a bit of a prank on me. I reckon my mates tried to transport me someplace only it didn't work right, or maybe it did. I don't have any change on me." Harry said.

Regulus was beginning to look tired of the conversation. He gave Harry one last considering look before shrugging again and motioning for the teenager to move.

"I'll lend you the sickles. No need to return them. Just go away, I've got enough to worry about, without having to think about strange boys appearing on my doorstep." The man's hand drifted up to his neck, where Harry noticed a glint of gold. It vanished as Regulus ducked past Harry and into the house. There was a glimpse of a strangely spotless foyer before Regulus appeared again, a galleon in his hand.

"You'd do well to be a bit more polite to people you don't know," he said, and handed the galleon over. "Good luck. I have to go." He slammed the door abruptly in Harry's face, leaving the teenager with thrills running down his spine from the adrenaline.

Harry started walking away from the house immediately, his mind contemplating the only theory he could come up with – some sort of time-travel.

It was clear that the Order were not using the Grimauld Place he had just visited as any kind of base. The aura of the house had been darker than ever before, and the appearance of a true Black made it clear that the house was no longer owned by Harry. If that was the case, then what had caused this?

A man who Harry had been told was dead, murdered for betraying his own people. That was what was truly disturbing. People who were dead, in Harry's experience, where liable to stay so.

So what was it that had brought Regulus Black back from his doom?

So far, the only thing that even almost fit the problems, was time travel. So how far had he traveled back? How many years into the past had he managed to land himself? Admittedly, the man who Harry had just met had looked about the age he ought to have been in 1996 if he had survived, but perhaps he was one of the people who always looked ten years older than they were.

Whatever was happening, Harry finally understood, the only person he could trust to remain the same, was Dumbledore.

It was time Harry gave up on the whole 'gut feeling' thing, and fessed up.

He closed his eyes and pictured the snowball fight he'd had with Malfoy in third year. The countryside near the shack solidified in his minds eye until he took a step – and cracked away from Grimauld Place.

There was no snow today, of course. But Hogsmeade looked as cute as it ever did, Harry thought, half wondering if he was going to have to walk to whole way to Honeydukes and to the school. He started to walk towards the village, before stopping, and chuckling to himself:

He had just about apparated right on top of a secret passageway into the school, and he was walking away! He turned back around, eyes set on the haunted silhouette of the infamous shrieking shack.

The house was exactly as he remembered it. The windows were all boarded shut, nails hanging out at vicious angles. The front door was locked with an enourmous padlock and several planks of wood. Signs in the garden warned of approaching: 'STAY AWAY!' and 'DANGEROUS!'

Harry finally managed to find a window with no bars or planks, and wormed his way through, catching on a nail as he passed. He brought his hand up and sucked on the scratch, the taste of blood flooded his taste buds.

Inside, the house was exactly as he remembered it, only dustier. It took a few minutes for Harry to find the entrance to the passageway again, but he eventually did, walking cautiously down into the muddy basement. He continued along, remembering the last time he had been in the tunnel, and began to feel strange once more. At the end of the passageway he was able to freeze the tree and make his way out onto the grounds without incident, which he was grateful for.

He was walking across the lawn, once again in his Hogwarts uniform, feeling strangely apprehensive. It was now late afternoon, and as far as Harry's memory allowed, he had been away for approximately a day. Very soon he would discover exactly what was going on – time-travel – or not.

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	3. Meeting

**_It is at an end. I no longer have to exist with the knowledge I will be forced to attend Physics lectures ever again. Rejoice: this chapter is dedicated to _the end of a life.**

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**MEETING**

The hallways were not exactly deserted, Harry found. A few students shuffled along the corridors, barely glancing his way once their eyes passed over his school robes, aparantly heading back to common rooms as curfew loomed. Harry was pleased to be able to fit so unobtrusively in, but was not about to be testing his invisibility any more than he really needed to: he avoided as many people as possible.

He reached the Headmaster's gargoyle after a soothing ten minute walk through the castle. The slight crackle of magic in the air as he breathed it in, the moving stairwells as he made his dogged way through, the haughty paintings – had all helped him come to the conclusion that this was Hogwarts. This _was _Hogwarts, and it wasn't as different as his magical senses seemed to want him to believe.

He considered the gargoyle for a few moments, unconsciously running a hand through his hair in frustration. For some obscene reason, he couldn't remember the password.

"Ice Mice?" he said, mentally beginning to form a list of all the sweets he knew. Nothing happened to he tried again. "Tictacs? Polo?"

He startled at the sound of footsteps echoing along the hallway. A small girl turned around the corner at the end of the corridor, robes swirling around her tiny frame. Harry instantly felt like hiding, but there was nowhere to go, so he found himself facing the grey-blue eyes of the first year.

"Are you here to see the Headmaster?" she asked him as soon as she was close enough to speak normally, seemingly unconcerned at the faint look of disbelief he sent her.

There was a pause while he considered if he should answer.

"Yes" he finally reluctantly replied.

"Don't have the password?" the first year continued perkily, flicking her red hair over one shoulder as she gave him a considering look. He shrugged in reply, not at all pleased with the happy-go-lucky tone the junior was using with him.

There was a longer pause while the girl squinted at him, as though she was trying to remember something very important.

"Well I guess you can come on up with me." She finally consented, dipping her head as though agreeing with herself. Harry felt an ironic smile tilt his lips sideways, and he thanked her politely, feeling strangely out of his depth.

The 'feeling' returned to his stomach like a lead cannonball.

The girl whispered the password so low that he couldn't hear it properly, and sent him a smirk while he mentally cursed. They stepped onto the stairwell, and waited in silence as they rose up to the Headmasters office. The first year looked completely comfortable on the rising staircase, but kept shooting him would-be-sly glances.

"You're really familiar, you know," the girl told him suddenly, turning to study him again. Harry felt instantly uncomfortable, for two reasons: he was against people he'd never met before knowing who he was _normally_, and he was _trying_ to go incognito.

Before he could answer, they had reached the top of the stairwell.

From what he could see, the office was exactly as it ought to have been, and Harry felt his shoulders sag in relief. The girl sent him another strange (and slightly Slytherin) look, before hopping off the stairwell and walking confidently through the open door, pausing only to motion for him to follow her.

Harry took a deep breath and made to follow her, but faulted as he heard Dumbledore's voice drifting through the doorway towards him, "Amy, I have been expecting you." The headmaster used a softly rebuking tone that had the hairs on the back of Harry's neck standing firmly on end. _Wrongness _seeped into his stomach again, making him feel sick.

Shaking his hesitancy aside, he stepped through the door, mentally preparing himself for anything at all.

'Anything at all' was exactly what he was least expecting: the utterly expected. Amy had a slightly shamed look on her face as she turned to look at him, and the Headmaster looked disappointed – the disappointed look that had made Harry's gut twist with sorrow and deep shame when it had been directed towards him.

As the other person stepped into his office, Albus Dumbledore's eyes shifted instantly to see who had accompanied his student, but the sight before him was clearly shocking enough for his crystal blue eyes to swim in a moment of indecision. Harry waited patiently for the professor's eyes to clear once more, that ominous feeling wrapping cold tendrils of dread around him.

Amy was looking at him strangely, again. He wrapped an arm around himself, self-conscious of the two pairs of eyes that were studying him carefully. The moment continued until Dumbledore flicked his wand, conjuring a comfortable looking chair right behind Harry, and motioning for the boy to sit.

"Miss Andrews, my dear, I think I will be forced to request your presence at a later date. I was not quite expecting my young visitor, but I fear his presence here does out-rank your own." He said, turning to the first year, who visibly relaxed, choosing to throw a thankful look Harry's way. She bobbed her head once, before spinning around and slipping into the stairwell before the Headmaster could change his mind.

Dumbledore's eyes re-focused on Harry, a contemplative look settling across his wizened face.

Harry shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

"You are Harry Potter, are you not?" the Headmaster eventually asked him, and Harry felt his eyes widen comically. And his heart stopped beating in his chest, too. And all the blood drained from every limb of his body, as well. Because _Albus Dumbledore_ knew him. Albus Dumbledore could tell who he was, just by looking at his face with those scarily twinkle-less eyes, and that meant only one thing in his mind: there had been no time mishap. Albus Dumbledore had known him since he was smaller than a foot tall, and yet, Albus Dumbledore was suddenly looking at him as though he were a less-favored, less-seen, less-remembered, nephew. And Albus Dumbledore would _not _treat him like that.

His eyes span around the room quickly, observing as closely as he possibly could: he had been compliant in assuming that the office was exactly as he had left it, and as his eyes roamed he could see that he had been wrong. Small differences, of course, small enough not to notice on a first glance, but certainly enough to jump out at him when he _really _looked: that strange device hadn't been there since his fifth year, and that odd piece of rock he'd never seen before in his life.

His eyes zoomed back to the Headmaster. His heart, having jump started in his chest, was now beating at several times its normal rate. Before he had even realized it, his eyes had come to rest on the headmasters hands.

"And yet there is something very different about you, indeed," the man mused, lifting his spidery hands up cautiously, and watching in bemusement as Harry's eyes trailed them, a shocked expression on the teenagers face.

Albus Dumbledore was not one to jump to conclusions easily. There were a number of principles that the old man held very close to his chest in regards to the 'facts of life'. If something didn't fit entirely with those facts, Albus Dumbledore was the kind of person who would set his sights on finding out _exactly _why not.

Harry Potter, walking into his office in the late afternoon, dressed in dirty and ruffled Gryffindor robes, accompanying a Slytherin first year civilly, did not fit into any kind of comprehensible order he had _ever_ heard of.

He abruptly silenced his thoughts as the boy looked like he was about to speak.

"I – Sir – Wha…?" A pause while the boy collected his scattered thoughts, "Headmaster, there's something weird going on," Harry finally stuttered, looking unsure about who exactly he was addressing, and what he was trying to say. Albus remained quiet, watching the confused expressions that were blurring across the teenagers face. He was reluctant to let his own face mirror the teenagers, feeling the familiar curiosity welling up inside his chest. That particular trait had put him in Gryffindor: a rampaging and usually reckless need to find out all of the answers, often at some great cost he could ill afford.

The teenager had clammed up, looking at him with calculating, and yet somehow naïve, eyes. Albus let the realization settle on his shoulders gently, confirming what had stopping him snapping off a stunner as soon as the child had entered his office: this was _not _any Harry Potter he had ever known.

"'Weird', Mister Potter?" he asked quietly, encouraging the young wizard to continue.

"I don't understand anything that's going on!" the young wizard suddenly exploded, throwing his hands up in the air. Harry jumped up, his confused anger blinding him to the twitching of the Headmasters wand-hand, and started pacing. After letting off something between an agonized moan and a furious shriek (which came out as a frustrated gurgle) he flopped back into his chair, feeling marginally better.

Dumbledore was eyeing him with an amused look twitching at the corners of his mouth. Harry adopted a vaguely sheepish expression before shaking his head as a serious look clouded his face.

"Headmaster, I need to know what's happened over the last few days," Harry said urgently, "the last thing I remember is going with you to the cave, for the horcrux, and you drank that potion, and then I tried to apparate us back, and the next thing I know I'm passed out in some alley." Harry paused for breath, before continuing.

"The next time I woke up, I was at St Mungos, but none of them knew who I was, thank God, I guess. Then I left and went to Grimmauld Place," Harry scowled at the mention of the Black Manor, "but there was this man there," Harry's eyes widened again, "he said his name was 'Regulus', but I thought Sirius's brother was dead – I thought Voldemort killed him!" Harry stopped abruptly, his emerald eyes taking in Dumbledore's carefully blank face. It seemed however that the teenager knew him a lot better than Dumbledore was able to comprehend, because he could sense the boy's sudden reluctance to continue until he confirmed some of what had been said.

Albus' mind was churning. The truth in the child's words jumped out at him, so much so that Albus was beginning to feel very uncomfortable indeed. The mention of a horcrux had caused Albus' stomach to plummet: whoever this person was, they were in deep enough for it to be dangerous. For _them _to be dangerous.

He clasped his hands together on the desk, considering what he could say to the teenager who clearly trusted him. A momentary frown marred his face. That was another thing – clearly this child knew him, and expected to be known. And yet Albus was positive that the only Harry Potter he knew would rather cast _Avada Kedavra _on him than as for any explanations.

He sighed, deeply troubled. Green eyes did not leave him for a second.

"Harry, I must confess that I am unfamiliar with you." He saw the teenager blink in confusion, but plowed on regardless, "I am uncertain of how you came across any information regarding horcrux's, but I would advice that you forget you ever knew any single thing about them." His voice turned hard, eyes glittered at Harry with enforced warning.

"I suspect that something quite magical has occurred here, Harry, and I would like you to stay here whilst I assemble a friend who may be able to help us understand who, exactly, you are."

Harry was looking at the Headmaster stunned, but he snapped his mouth shut, and shook his head furiously. When he finished, he blinked again, apparently expecting Albus to have disappeared and been replaced with something more accommodating of his comprehension.

Albus gestured him to speak.

"I'm Harry Potter," he finally said, helplessly, "You _know _I am professor! I don't understand what's going on! Why don't you remember what happened the other day?" his eyes fastened once more onto the Headmasters hands, "and why isn't your hand all… black?"

Albus turned his own gaze back to his hands, and for a few moments they were both staring at his wrinkled palms. He looked up again, wondering if perhaps this wasn't as sinister as he thought, and the boy was simply mad.

"I confess that I find my hands in exactly the condition I would most wish for them to be. Why did you think they were 'black', my boy?"

Harry had become very silent, and very still. Nothing was going as he had expected it to. To begin with, he had not expected the excruciating pain of apparation, and after that? Well, it had all gone to the dogs. Even Dumbledore didn't appear to have any type of answer. Instead, the old wizard was looking at his as though they had never met before, as though he truly believed that Harry was not whom he professed to be. Harry had to admit, that since he had woken up from the initial oddness (apparation), it had almost seemed as if he were in another world. He dismissed the idea immediately, though, he'd never even _heard_ of such a thing before.

Harry had no idea what was going on, but he was sure as hell going to find out.

At the Headmaster's soft cough, Harry realized he hadn't answered the question.

"Well…" he started unsurely, but gained momentum at the encouraging look he received from the Headmaster, "you didn't tell me the specifics, of course," Albus' eyebrow shot up, although Harry was too absorbed in observing his own pale hands to notice, "But I think it had something to do with you destroying the ring." Harry finished what he had been saying and looked back up, waiting to see some flare of recognition in the Headmasters eyes. There was nothing.

He could feel a small part of his soul curl up and die. For some reason, _something_ had happened, and it had rendered him utterly alone. Not even Dumbledore could reach him.

He considered the possibility that it was all just some terrible nightmare, but dismissed it also as he ran his fingers across the velvety material the conjured chair was made from. He didn't have this kind of wonderful yet terrifying imagination.

Dumbledore coughed again, this time just to gain Harry's attention.

"I informed you that I had hurt my hand from the destruction of a ring, Mister Potter? Could you, perhaps, tell me precisely when this happened?"

Harry shook his head dully. He couldn't remember when he had gone up to Dumbledore and found out about his hand, he couldn't remember anything so specific.

The Headmaster sighed again, his eyes once more contemplating the brunette before him. Harry repressed a yawn and hoped that he had not seen it. But, after a pause, the twinkle was back in the old man's eyes as he cleared his mind of trouble and stood up, motioning for Harry to do the same.

"I believe that this is quite enough, Mister Potter, and I also believe that it would be best for you to stay at Hogwarts until further notice." Harry nodded, relieved. The way things had been going, he was sure he would be kicked out onto the streets. If Dumbledore noticed his relief, the old man didn't show it.

"Whatever has happened has clearly resulted in the two of us with quite mismatched memories. I am looking forward to discovering which of us, if not both of us, are correct in our recalling abilities." He gave Harry a warm smile, trying to comfort the child, who was looking as though his favorite pet had just been murdered before his very eyes.

Harry stood up and took a half-step towards him, before faltering. Albus' mind reeled, however, as the sheer amount of magical residue clinging to the boy's form struck him. How he had not noticed the stunning amount of power before spiked a moment of fear within him, before it subsided and he concluded that he needed to sit down and think. He needed to know more about what Harry's last memories were, of why the boy thought he knew him. Of _who_ the child could possibly _be_.

_But not now_, he thought, observing the wilting teenager with still bemused eyes. He could wait until the morning to further this interrogation. Wait until the morning to tell Harry exactly what the name 'Harry Potter' conjured up within most wizards and witches in Modern Wizarding Britain.

Because he was certain the boy was not yet ready to find out.


	4. Circumstance

_Kremit**, you speak truth. I was going to post the following in the initial pilot chapter, but I decided I was talking too much, which I am normally never loath to do. Having said that, my story **_**will_ diverge sharply from both fanfictions. They truly are _only_ sources of inspiration, rather than places to kidnap plots: _**

_**My main inspirations are: A Stranger in an Unholy Land by **Serpant-Socrcerer** (on fanfic) and Disappear by **Unzum**. Both of those stories are amazing and brilliant, and if you have not read them I recommend you do so immediately. **_

**_Chapters should be longer from this point on, as my Summer holidays have just commenced. Already bringing with them immense amounts of sunburn and pain. I shall endeavor to navigate through Christmas, New Years, Holiday work, Friends, Birthdays, Work and Family so that I may serve you with longer chapters in the future._**

* * *

**CIRCUMSTANCE**

Harry found himself in a bedroom that was decorated in Ravenclaw blues.

He had walked with the headmaster through a now thoroughly deserted school (curfew had passed half an hour ago), feeling strangely uncomfortable in the older mans presence. It wasn't so much that he didn't feel he could trust the Headmaster, it was more a case of the Headmaster not trusting him. A new experience in itself, to be honest, and one Harry wasn't entirely sure agreed with him.

They had weaved through the maze-like school until they had reached the portrait of an old woman, gently nursing a toddler in her lap. Harry had instantly had the urge to groan – portraits that depicted anything maternal were usually utter sticky-beaks. He didn't doubt that was the exact reason Dumbledore had chosen these particular rooms, although he wasn't entirely ready to discount simple amusement.

The rooms were nice.

Gorgeous, even.

Far more than he had ever experienced before, even in the Gryffindor dorms. There was the main room, complete with a four-post bed. Midnight hangings shimmered like star-light as they fluttered in the breeze. A writing desk sat smugly in one corner of the room with a pot of ink and a pile of parchment, waiting for use. A small hall led to an enormous bathroom which had a large shower, a bath charading as a spa, as well as an elegant marble sink with obnoxiously soft gold handles.

There were no magical portraits or paintings in the room apart from one small canvas, positioned carefully in one corner of the room. It had been empty since Harry had arrived, but the dark-haired teenager was willing to bet that a face would be peaking through just as soon as he succumbed to sleep.

The most disturbing thing about the room was nothing that could possibly be pointed at. It was the mere fact that _Harry had been given a room. _There had been no question about where Harry would be sleeping – nothing about his dorm or the bed he'd spent the better parts of six years making his own. And then, compounded upon this evil, Dumbledore's chosen room featured a colour-scheme suited only to people who spent far too much time in the library. A group Harry had never fitted in with.

Harry was pretty sure that if he tried to use the floo, or open one of the windows far enough to climb out, or even walk out the door, he wouldn't be able to.

Because, essentially, he was a prisoner.

It was a nice prison! One with a roaring fire, and a platter of marshmallows laid out before it, waiting to be toasted. But it _was _a prison. And no amount of pretty words on Dumbledore's part could change that.

"_Until we are able to make better sense of this riddle, I think it would be a novel idea for you to stay within the confines of your room." The Headmaster said once he had given the password, and they stood together awkwardly looking at the quarters._

_Harry's brain was too tired to argue with such an unpredicted statement, so he settled for nodding his head blearily, wondering when the dream would be over and he would wake up to Ron's annoyed shouts._

"_You must understand, my boy, that this is merely a safety precaution on my part. But it is, nonetheless one that I must take. I hope you will realize that I have a school full of children whom I am sworn to protect, and I would not be doing my job if I were to give you freedom of the castle. You need not worry, of course, for there would be little time for freedom regardless. I shall organize for a colleague to come and accompany you to my office at an appropriate time tomorrow morning." Dumbledore had stopped, watching Harry in silence for a few moments, before nodding to himself absently. _

"_It has been a pleasure. Until tomorrow, Mister Potter."_

Polite, restrained and impeccably courteous.

Harry sighed, and lowered himself onto the soft double-bed. Dumbledore was right though – he doubted he'd have had much time to wander around even if he wanted to, anyway. He was exhausted, utterly so. Tiredness seemed to be seeping out from his bones and contaminating his bloodstream. He realized that it was the first chance he'd had for a natural sleep since the entire weird experience had begun, and he held out the tiny hope that natural sleep would wake him from the dream. At the realization though, he also knew that he couldn't stay awake for another minute, and his eyes closed.

For some reason, he dreamt about his mother.

He woke up suddenly at 3.09 am. The sheets around him were twisted in such a way that they were wound tightly around his neck, slightly damp with sweat. He couldn't remember what had happened during his unsettling dream, other than snatches of his mothers smiling face (which didn't seem like nightmare material at all), but again that feeling of unease was sitting heavily upon his ribcage.

"Alright there?" A voice asked from the darkness of the room, and Harry felt himself jump in surprise. He snatched up his wand from the end of the bed (where it had apparently rolled to during his sleep) and turned to face the direction the voice had come from.

He sighed in relief when he realized a young wizard had appeared in the painting he had noted previously, and was watching him with concern. Harry felt angry that the man had been watching him while he slept, and he glowered at the painting, considering jabbing his wand at the now chuckling wizard.

"Well now, I'll take that as a 'yes'." He said, reclining back into a chair with comfortable familiarity. He watched Harry's incensed face through amused eyes, not seeming worried by the clear fury sketched out on the younger wizards face.

Harry was beginning to feel he needed an outlet for the rage, and predominantly confusion, that he had been forced to deal with the last few days. Every time he was angry enough to want to blow something up (preferably the smug portrait) he was forced to push down his anger for decorum's sake. He was sure that if he couldn't vent soon, his anger would reach heights that no threat of consequences would be able to forestall.

"Can you _not _watch me sleep?" he asked the portrait instead, biting back his anger.

The young man looked like he was about to tut at Harry, but instead shook his head gently, seemingly taking pity on the teenager.

"As a portrait it is my responsibility to obey the wishes of the Headmaster." He said with a small shrug, shifting about so that he was sitting cross-legged in the plush chair.

Harry sighed, disappointed to realize that his suspicions had been correct – Dumbledore had set the portrait up to spy on him. Almost as if reading his mind, the man in the painting started to speak again.

"I'm not here because he feels you need to be watched as a danger to the school, you know. To be honest, I think it's far more a case of making sure you aren't a danger to yourself." He said cryptically, looking as though he was making perfect sense. Harry certainly didn't feel that way.

But he decided to let it go, like it seemed he'd been doing for days solid, and lay back down onto the bed. He felt strangely rested. The _tempus_ spell revealed it was now 3.22 am, which meant he had managed six hours sleep at the most. He didn't really believe that was enough, after the strange things that had been happening to him. But his body disagreed, because he was feeling as though he'd been asleep for the last few days, jittery with energy.

Could there seriously be something wrong with him? Was it _Harry _who was out of whack? Was perhaps Dumbledore correct to be wary of him? It certainly seemed more likely than the entire world suddenly changing in the course of one day. Maybe Harry really _was _going mad.

The portrait started humming, and Harry looked up at it, broken from his depressing thoughts.

"What's your name, anyway?" he asked gruffly, still angry that he had been watched when he was sleeping. Was nothing sacred these days?

The man beamed at him.

"Ah, courtesy at it's finest when it only takes you thirty minutes to ask for an introduction!" Harry had the vague feeling that this was an insult, but it was presented in such a chipper and joyful voice that he didn't feel like being offended. "I am Wolfgang Yuurn Von Malsdorf, but my friends and associated call me Vole. Naturally I have been in possession of the name far longer than that man who likes to call himself a Dark Lord." The portrait chuckled, seemingly not at all concerned about insulting a man who most people feared to speak of at all. Harry supposed that as a portrait, there wasn't much that Voldemort could do to him.

He chuckled though, pleased to have been given a minder who at least had a sense of humor.

"Oh I think it's perfectly fine to call him a Dark Lord. That's what his type usually _are _called, and he certainly fits the criteria." Harry replied, turning his wand over in his hands and watching as the occasional electric blue spark shot out.

Vole settled more comfortably into his chair, watching the enigma that called itself Harry Potter.

"You must be tired," he settled for saying, "it's three in the morning, after all. Most good little wizards like yourself are fast asleep. Even the bad ones have usually worn themselves out by about now."

Harry looked up at him and sighed.

"I couldn't sleep if I tried to." He admitted, carefully placing his wand on the bedside table. He turned to face the portrait, sitting cross-legged in an imitation of Vole. The portrait nodded encouragingly. "Can I trust you in confidence? I mean, without you going off and telling Dumbledore everything I say. If you think it's dangerous then sure, I guess, go ahead. But I really don't understand what's going on."

Harry felt mad for being willing to tell a portrait that had been ordered to spy on him exactly what was wrong. Vole had a look of concentration on his face, as if he were attempting to figure out a loophole that would allow such an arrangement to take place. His face smoothed out and he smiled.

"I think that it can be arranged. I'm certainly no slave to the Headmaster, but as it happens, I agree with him that you need some guidance." Vole waved his hand lazily, cutting off Harry's frustrated retort. "That looked like a pretty nasty nightmare." He hedged.

Harry glanced away, unable to keep eye contact with the insightful portrait, conceding the point that had been made: Harry had problems. Big, happiness-crunching, problems.

There was a mildly uncomfortable silence between them.

"What was it you wanted to tell me?" Vole finally asked, after the silence had stretched for a little too long. Harry looked up from tracing invisible patterns in the carpet with his eyes, suddenly wary to confide in anyone.

But the fact of the matter was that if he didn't tell someone soon, Harry was going to go mental. It was going on to a third day now, since things had been normal, leaving him in some in-between state of mind. Harry had felt, in the last forty-eight hours, as though he was constantly out of his depth. Honestly, he had no idea how he had managed to survive as he had – he felt utterly incapable and confused.

He felt like he was alone in the universe.

Everything had suddenly been wrenched away from underneath him: the foundation of his life. Dumbledore was acting bizarrely, and Hogwarts just didn't seem like home. He still didn't know what was going on, but nothing could convince him that it wasn't something very, very major (and quite possibly _bad_).

Deciding that he needed another perspective on the whole mess, he looked up at Vole with sad eyes.

"Everything's been so strange lately." Harry began, stopping to look at the portrait. Vole didn't move at all, curled up in his chair as he observed Harry silently.

"Professor Dumbledore doesn't know who I am! I mean, he _really_ doesn't know. Like I don't exist, or he's never met me, or he isn't Albus Dumbledore! But he _is, _you know? There's just something about Dumbledore that makes you _believe _he's all those fancy titles. The medi-wizard at St Mungos didn't know who I was either. And when I apparated that first time, it was worse than the cruciatus curse. Worse than _Crucio_ cast twenty times. Really bad. And that's when it all started, you know? Because he was _there with me_! I apparated with the Professor! But he was all sick because of that stupid potion he had to drink to get to the horcrux. Oh God." Harry ranted, barely pausing for breath, surprised to hear it all come pouring out so easily. He collapsed onto the bed, burying his face in his hands. He attempted to even his erratic breathing, but found that it was pointless. He was so close to tears.

Vole watched him, mentally sorting through everything that the teenager had said. There seemed to be three categories of rant. The first: 'no one knows who I am', which was apparently very distressing indeed. The second: 'screwed up magic', which appeared to have taken the form of apparation gone-wrong. The third: 'horcrux', the most worrying of all.

Harry seemed to have forgotten he even had an audience for his tirade, and Vole remained silent, working through the possibilities within his mind.

Albus had warned him that the boy would not be as expected. After all, the name 'Harry Potter' did not conjure up images of a confused teenager fighting back tears. Not anymore.

Vole hadn't been sure he believed the Headmaster at all. The man had claimed that the teenager who would take up residence in Vole's quarters was convinced he was Harry Potter. He had confided to the portrait that he seemed to have a very different set of memories to Albus' own, enough so that it was likely he had been the victim of a damaging dark spell.

However, no spell could place the knowledge of what a horcrux was within the victims mind unless the caster indented it to be so. Which meant someone had deliberately wanted Harry to remember something in regards to the horcrux's, or (perhaps more terrifyingly) this was no spell.

Vole came out of his reverie as he noticed the teenagers startling green eyes watching him warily, mind apparently having caught up with emotion.

He coughed awkwardly, uncertain of what to say. Luckily for him, the boy continued.

"Dumbledore doesn't believe me. He doesn't remember going to get the horcrux at all. But I don't think anyone's put a spell on him, because, well, who could?" Harry's eyes were sober, his distress evident, but he seemed calmer. "So that means that it's something that's wrong with _me_."

Vole was aware of the exact moment his heart started to tie itself into knots.

"Ah, you think it's you, do you?" He asked, almost choking on the words. Apparently, Harry didn't know him well enough to notice, and the teenager nodded gloomily.

Which meant it couldn't be. Any spell that had been placed upon the boy would undoubtedly assure that he _never _questioned his beliefs. The strength in those mind manipulation curses was that they commanded absolute belief in self. If the boy was going so far as to doubt his sanity, then it had to be perfectly fine.

Which meant that something stranger than strange was going on.

Vole was loath to wake Albus at such an undignified time of morning, but the boy looked like he'd just slept for two days solid. He could not banish the feeling that the sooner they sorted this mess out, the better.

Vole sighed to himself, wondering why all the interesting things had happened _after _his death.

"I think that it is about time you and the Headmaster had another tête-à-tête. You have just revealed something which I doubt even you were aware of the importance of. It does change the playing field quite considerably." Vole directed this towards Harry, watching from the restrictions of his frame as the teenager looked up quietly, a frown marring his otherwise porcelain face. Vole felt like banging his head against a wall at the beginnings of an immature and rather pointless 'crush'.

"I do not want to betray your trust, so; may I go and fetch the Headmaster?" he asked, scraping together his dignity as much as he was able. Harry didn't look to have noticed at all, anyway.

The teenager was looking confused at this sudden change in events.

"But I just spoke with him a few hours ago!" he objected. "It's not like waiting a few more hours is going to matter that much."

_True, _mused Vole.

"Well perhaps you would prefer to go back to sleep, you are correct of course. My enthusiasm perhaps just got the better of me." Vole coughed. He was still twitching to tell the Headmaster what 'Harry' had unwittingly revealed, but common sense knew that a couple of hours couldn't hurt.

At the mention of sleep, Harry looked annoyed.

"I'm not tired." Harry said, glancing around the room.

"Surely – " Vole began, but was interrupted.

"I'm not tired." Harry stubbornly repeated, the look on his face showing the painting he had no intention of going back to sleep.

_Then why not just get the Headmaster? _Vole thought in exasperation, fighting back the urge to role, what his father had called, 'common' brown eyes. If the teenager noticed his frustration, it didn't show, and Vole accepted that his roommate was clearly as observant as a lollipop.

"So, were you a Gryffindor then?" Harry asked finally, feeling relieved to have let some of the pressure that had been building up about the whole thing out. It was a relief to finally tell someone. This time Vole really did role his eyes.

Perhaps less than a lollipop, then.

"The robes I am wearing may, perhaps, indicate otherwise." He said in annoyance, but the undercurrent in his voice told anyone (even with observation skills that fell below that of a lollipop's) that he would enjoy the conversation.

* * *

Albus did not sleep that night at all. 

Once he had safely escorted the boy to one of the many sets of rooms in the castle, he walked slowly back to his office, mind racing through the possibilities.

He did not believe that the young man he had just met was Harry Potter in any way, shape, or form. He had met the 'real' Harry Potter only a handful of times in his life, but those times had been enough for him to form an educated mental picture of what the boy was like.

Albus had often meditated on why a child with such charming parents as Lily and James Potter could ever become what Harry Potter had. At one point, he had even entertained the idea that the boy had simply been _born _evil, but Albus was far too intelligent to let such an easy answer content him. There was a _reason_ for what Harry Potter had become; Albus just didn't know what it was.

He arrived back at his office wishing that he could simply go to bed, but knowing in his heart that it was unacceptable. Fawkes trilled encouragingly, and Albus smiled at the faithful bird.

"I believe I am at a loss, Fawkes, as to what exactly Tom is currently planning." Albus confided, while the phoenix watched him with beady black eyes, "If the appearance of a boy claiming to be Harry Potter, is indeed a result of his mechanics."

It was true.

It this fake Harry Potter had been sent by Voldemort (whether the boy knew it or not) then Albus had no idea what could possibly be going through the Dark Lord's mind. This was something he had never factored in. He needed to do some serious thinking about the connotations of 'Harry Potter' turning up on Hogwart's doorstep.

Of course, just because he did not believe Harry Potter was _Harry Potter _didn't mean that he was not willing to consider the consequences of a situation where he was.

Albus tapped his chin gently, considering what he ought to do.

He had spoken to Vole about watching the boy, but he was not interested in invading the teenager's privacy any more than his rather upright ethics allowed. He had little doubt that the portrait would have been noted by the boy immediately, and if there truly was an objection, then the teenager had every capability of removing Vole, forcibly.

A pinch of raspberry coloured floo later, and a bleary eyed Remus Lupin was blinking in his fireplace. Albus waited patiently while the werewolf gathered his equilibrium, glancing around the Headmaster's office, until his amber eyes finally came to rest on Albus himself. Albus allowed himself the honest smile of happiness that came to him from seeing the other man looking at him inquisitively from the fireplace.

"Albus, it's a pleasure to hear from you again. To what do I owe the honor? Nothing overly urgent I hope?" Remus greeted him politely. Albus was instantly pleased with Remus' calm response to being called up at ten thirty in the evening with no warning whatsoever. He felt a spark of joy to see that the shy first year he had first welcomed to Hogwarts had now grown into a polite and controlled man. It gave him a satisfaction like no other seeing that he had successfully helped such a worthy person reach their goals.

He felt sure that, this time at least, he had made the correct choice.

"Remus!" He greeted him, knowing that his happiness was already showing on his face, "please, won't you come on through?" he asked, stepping back accordingly.

"Oh, it's – alright, hang on a moment." Remus leant out of the flames for a moment, although his hands remained clasped in the flames. A second later he returned, and another after that was shaking the soot from his robes in the Headmasters office, curiosity alight in his eyes.

Albus noted with amusement that his wand was wedged behind his ear. Remus blushed when he noticed the Headmaster's amusement, but sat down, stubbornly refusing the remove the wand, and waited for Albus to explain.

Once they were both seated, with conjured tea and shortbread biscuits floating enticingly between them, Albus let his smile drop. Remus sighed, waiting for the worst.

Albus folded his hands in his lap uncomfortably.

"This evening a young man came and knocked upon my gargoyle." Remus looked confused, but didn't comment. Albus' eyes twinkled briefly. "He was not a Hogwarts student. And nor, I am quite sure, although he believes differently, has he ever been." He paused to let this sink in on Remus.

"Remus, if I may ask a personal question?" the younger man nodded, willing for the meandering Headmaster to reach the punch line.

"How well did you know Harry Potter?"

Remus found himself sucking in air with surprise. If being called out in the middle of the night to Hogwarts, on his own, had not been a bolt from the blue, then questions about his friend's son would have defined the term.

His intelligent mind was already whirring though, as it worked through the possibilities based on what limited information he yet had.

As smart as he was, he couldn't think of anything at all. He decided to stop trying to guess what was going on, and just answer the question.

"I wasn't really close with him at all," Remus started, cautiously. He had enough faith in the Headmaster not to think the man was accusing him of anything, but there was something quite serious going on if it involved James's first son. "When he was a child we were around him a fair bit, but then Sirius got that job in Italy, and Peter went to Albania on that scholarship, and I ended up getting that promotion. We went to visit James and Lily quite a lot for our situations, but he wasn't always around. He was very quiet." Internally Remus added: _Creepily quiet._ Harry Potter gave him the shivers.

Albus was observing him through thoughtful eyes. It was nothing he hadn't heard before, of course. In the hours he had spent considering the reason for Harry's turn towards the Darker nature of magic, Albus had looked closely at the shifting relationships between his parent's friends. He had yet to find a concrete link.

He stroked his beard, thinking deeply.

"Would you say you knew Harry well in his teens?" he asked, noticing that the werewolf had relaxed at the casual questions.

Remus shook his head negatively, frowning. "Not at all. I think I might have seen him, oh, I don't know… Five times in the whole time he was at school. Even when he was eleven he was withdrawn. It's… hard to explain. Most people would have thought he was just misunderstood, you know?" he asked rhetorically, eyes hazy as they saw a different past. "But it was more than that. Harry Potter was, well, no other word for it - scary. He watched things, _people_, and then…" Remus trailed off, but his face was contorted in something very like pain. He shook his head, and looked up to the Headmaster, clearing the disgust that had been painted across his features.

"Well, you know what happens _then_, Headmaster."

Albus nodded solemnly.

The entire of Hogwarts knew what happened once Harry decided to act upon a situation.

He steeped his fingers with a sigh, and Remus found himself falling back on his almost endless supplies of patience. The Headmaster smiled sadly at him. Harry Potter was a sore spot for all of them.

"I find myself in a quandary." Albus eventually began. "And it involves this visitor I was telling you about. If I were not who I am, and did I not know the things I do, I would assume that at approximately nine o'clock tonight, Harry Potter visited my office."

The clock chimed twelve o'clock just as Remus jerked in his chair, mouth forming a small 'o' of surprise.

"The boy walked into my office as though he had been here many times before, and yet I correctly recall that Harry Potter has never entered into this room. He was most surprised when I questioned him as to exactly who he was." Albus paused as he considered his own words, giving Remus a chance to splutter incoherently, his calmness momentarily deserting him.

"Yes, you are quite correct." Albus agreed, inclining his head as though Remus had made an intelligent point, rather than be unable to properly form a sentence. The werewolf blushed. "I should have stunned him. It is only because of the way he carried himself, the posture he immediately adopted, that I did not. Curiously, he did not expect me to stun him, at any point." Albus stopped again, pensive.

"He held complete trust within me." The Headmaster said softly, his voice conveying a sense of wonder. Remus snorted gently, mentally questioning how anyone (excluding Death Eaters, of course) could _not _trust the kindly old man.

"Sir, I really don't think that I understand what you're trying to get at." Remus admitted, hoping that Dumbledore would speed on through the mysterious riddles and tell him exactly what was going on.

Albus nodded a brief apology.

"He claimed to be Harry Potter, but I am certain that he is not." Albus said, clarifying the situation. Remus made a face that was clearly meant to ask _'why would any sane person want to pretend to be Harry Potter?'_ As far as the Order were aware, not even the Death Eaters much liked their young fellow.

"I find myself further disturbed with this situation, because he discussed some things which I would definitely classify under the category _Top Secret_." Albus tilted his head meaningfully towards Remus, who could _feel _the knot of apprehension as it tied itself into his throat.

"Ah, but why am I telling you all this Remus, when all I need do is show you?" Albus smiled. He stood up with a rustle of star-embroided robes, and made his way towards one of the cupboards, before gently removing a pensieve. Remus sat up straighter at the sight of it.

Remus was completely silent as he viewed the memory of an impassioned 'Harry Potter' discussing so casually the atrocity that was a horcrux. When he emerged, his face was pinched with worry and, prevalently, confusion.

"It could just be some elaborate hoax," Remus wearily informed the Headmaster. Albus nodded.

"But I do not believe that it is."

Remus sighed. "You called me because I'm an unspeakable?" he finally asked, "Or because I knew Harry Potter?" he corrected, seeing Albus' look.

The Headmaster smiled that regretful smile of his. Remus imagined that Albus Dumbledore had seen a great many hearts lying broken at feet, a great many mourners crying for their loved ones, and a great many broken people, waiting only for their own funeral. Remus imagined that only once you had seen so much of life, both the bright and the dark, could you look as humbly heartbroken as the Headmaster did.

"I called you, Remus, because you are the best man for the job."

* * *

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	5. Theories

**THEORIES**

Remus rapped on the portrait's frame uncertainly. It was eight thirty in the morning, and he had spent what remained of his night in bed, tossing and turning. He hadn't had nightmares. To have nightmares he would have implied that he had slept. Harry Potter had the mysterious power to turn Remus into an insomniac.

The mother in the painting guarding Harry's rooms smiled benevolently at him, looking dreamily content. Remus exhaled an annoyed sigh, wondering why it was that Hogwarts portraits were all so unbearably smug. He was standing outside the portrait because he couldn't seem to find the will within himself to open it and face whatever phenomenon it was that had made Albus so wary.

He smiled in relief when the portrait shimmered slightly, before fading all together. It revealed a surprised looking Harry Potter, owlishly blinking emerald eyes at the werewolf, dressed in crumpled Gryffindor robes.

The casual silence of the corridor suddenly sharpened so that it was dangerously taut. Harry eyed Remus confusedly, but with a certain amount of calculation. Remus watched the teenager wearily, fingers tapping an agitated beat onto the handle of his mahogany wand. Neither of them moved, and the painting did not reappear.

There was something else on Harry's face that set Remus's teeth on edge though. He had an ominous feeling that this was what Albus had been talking about: that hesitant familiarity. It may have been unconscious, but Remus could see it as plain as day. Harry _trusted _him. On some level, at least.

The teenager seemed reluctant to speak first.

"Do you know who I am?" Remus asked finally, wondering if he could find an answer to the trust he could see silently glowing in the teenagers face.

Not seeing a reason to lie, Harry blinked once more in confusion (which was fast becoming his natural state) and nodded. "You're Professor Lupin." He supplied matter of factly, before pausing, "Professor _Remus _J. Lupin."

"And you're Harry Potter," Remus sighed.

"Why does that have to be a bad thing, anyway?" Harry asked, suddenly looking angry. He scowled, scrunching up his face. "All I've gotten since I got back to Hogwarts is people acting like being me is a fate they wouldn't even wish on Voldemort!"

Remus winced appropriately, although he found himself awed at Harry's casual use of the Dark Lord's name. He noted the disgusted look on the others face (at his wince) with a mild curiosity.

"So now you're afraid to say his name, Professor?" 'Harry' asked bitingly, his voice venomous. Remus instantly gained the impression that biting sarcasm was not as natural to Harry as it was to Severus Snape, because the boy was obviously fueled by anger, and predominantly, confusion. For that reason, it was more than the malice in his voice that ashamed Remus, it was the genuine hurt that was buried beneath it.

But it was a curious thing to say. This must have been what Albus had been referring to when he'd mentioned 'mismatched memory'. Remus had never been a Professor in his life, and he'd certainly never spoken Voldemort's name as though he were merely commenting on the weather. He had too much respect for those dead in the war to misuse the name, and also, he admitted to himself, not a little fear. Somehow, this person before him 'knew' a Remus Lupin whose circumstance had clearly been quite different from his own.

And didn't that conjure up a lovely set of impossibilities.

Albus' only explanation to the events had been a displaced memory charm. Any one of a variety of them could have been used to alter and dissolve memories within the teenager. Yet the Headmaster had also expressed a doubt.

"_Call it a seventh sense Remus. This is the truly magical one. I have a fear that what may have occurred here is a few hundred inches over our heads."_

"Why would I want to speak the name of a murdering dictator like _Him_? Don't you understand the association and images that speaking about Him can call up in a person?" Remus questioned, instead of answering Harry. The teenager's scowl darkened to unprecedented heights, and Remus actually fought back a chuckle.

He'd never seen Harry Potter look so put-out before.

"I don't want to have to stand around here all day, Harry." Remus said, realizing that the other boy had decided not to argue the point. "The Headmaster wanted me to take you up to his office so that we could all talk there."

At the mention of the Headmaster and talking Harry perked up, having just remembered something. Remus could imagine his ear twitching.

"Vole wanted to talk to the Headmaster about something last night. I don't know if he already has." Harry said softly, stepping out through the portrait hole, brushing his robes down self consciously.

Remus cast his mind, trying to remember if the Headmaster had mentioned a 'Vole' at any point. Harry didn't seem to notice that Remus had no idea what he was talking about, and stood expectantly, waiting to walk to the Headmasters office.

The walked silently for a few corridors.

"I suppose you don't remember me either?" Harry finally sighed as they passed a painting featuring only a landscape of jellyfish. His voice was both wistful and accusing. He kicked invisible dirt, and shot a sulky glance towards Remus. The unspeakable was silent, considering and thinking and trying to possibly find an answer to this confusing situation.

"No, I don't." He confirmed.

Harry's face flushed from devastation to anger and then back to a heart-breaking terror. Remus found himself facing the very obvious potential for depression within the teenager. It was a well-documented side effect of some curses and potions that messed with memory. By fabricating memories within his mind, 'Harry' now had no friends, no family, nothing he knew could be trusted, his very morals could be brought into question – results as they possibly were of dark, _dark_ magic.

And although these memory potions seemed the only answer that fit the problem, Remus wasn't sure that they were on the right track with them. In fact, he was beginning to doubt the entire idea completely.

_Let's just be crazy, _he thought, _and assume that this really _is _Harry Potter. Then what?_

'Then what?' indeed.

"I take it that I _should _know you? That you know me?" he asked Harry, eager to find out more about what was going on inside the young man's mind.

Harry nodded.

"You were my Professor in third year, and we…" Harry paused, squinted his eyes as though trying to remember something, before shaking his head in frustration. "Did stuff." He finished lamely.

Remus' eyes widened incredibly.

Harry's face reddened and he shook his head, seeing that conclusions that the werewolf might have come to.

"Not that kind of stuff!" he choked, looking disgusted. Despite himself, Remus felt a little miffed; before he realized that he was actually _offended_ by the teenager's clear disdain, and shook his head with an amused smile. Harry was looking like he'd just eaten something very unpleasant.

He gave Remus a strange sideways look.

"Because I'm into _girls _you know." He pouted, apparently seeing the humor in the situation as well. Remus turned to look at the teenager speculatively.

"Sounds like you're trying to convince yourself more than me, Harry." He said with a carefully casual shrug. They both laughed a little, and the tension that had been in the air dissipated. Remus was shocked to find himself having a conversation like this with the supposed 'Harry Potter'. He hadn't expected the teenager to inadvertently make a slight sexual innuendo, and then blush like a first year when he was called up on it. He hadn't expected to be laughing along.

The continued down the hallways, passing by students. They were barely glanced at. "So what _does _'stuff' entail?" Remus asked as they were nearly knocked over by a group of rushing Hufflepuff first years.

Harry looked cautious.

"You know Sirius Black?" he asked. Remus noted that he'd made sure to turn and look at Remus full on when he asked the question, carefully watching Remus' reaction to the query. Remus wasn't aware of his face giving anything away, but whatever Harry was looking for, he seemed to find it. "Well we helped him out of a fix, I guess you could say." Harry continued, turning back around and looking a little sheepish.

It was Remus' turn to smirk.

"Doesn't surprise me. Sirius is awfully good at finding himself in situations where he needs bailing out." Remus said fondly. He didn't notice Harry's involuntary intake of breath, nor the slight falter in the teen's footsteps as he used the present tense to describe his godfather.

Remus was thinking about what Harry had said. It sounded to him that Harry's memories were a hell of a lot more fun than the reality. The 'real' third year had certainly had no fun pranks with Sirius and himself. Instead, a withdrawn Harry had dispassionately told his parents that he'd rather die than go home for Christmas. No one had been certain if he was telling the truth or just pulling their legs, but despite everything, the thirteen year old had stayed at Hogwarts for the Winter break. He couldn't help but imagine that a world where James Potter's son got along so wonderfully with his godfather and friends was a world that wouldn't be half bad.

Remus came up short with a sharp gasp as he realized exactly what he had just thought:

_A world that wouldn't be half bad._

Harry was looking at him curiously, lines of worry and concern crinkling his forehead. The teenager looked distracted. His eyes were far-away, and Remus wondered just how truly far this 'Harry Potter' had come to be here standing by his side.

Because he had just had a very exciting idea.

"Are you okay, Professor?" Harry asked him when he didn't move for a few more seconds.

He nodded absently, mind already spinning off in new directions. How he could validate his (admittedly highly unlikely and unprecedented) idea enough to satisfy Albus and every other ministry official who took an interest? How to discover the exact mechanics of how it happened! Possibly even replicate them!

He had continued to walk, looking as though he were in a trance. Harry had zoned back down to Earth and was watching Remus cautiously, as though he could explode at any moment.

They reached the gargoyle about a minute later.

"Remus! Harry!" Dumbledore welcomed them, beaming, "what a pleasure!" he noticed the strange look on Remus' face and turned to Harry, eyebrow arching into his hair-line in a silently amused question.

Harry just shrugged, still feeling vaguely uncomfortable in the Headmasters familiar-yet-not presence.

Remus and Harry both took their seats while Dumbledore placed a dish of pastries before them. Harry suddenly realized exactly how hungry he was, and helped himself do an apricot Danish. Remus didn't even seem to notice that they were there; he was so deep in thought.

Harry felt much more optimistic about the situation now that he was munching breakfast in the Headmasters office, not being held at wand-point (which hadn't seemed so unlikely yesterday) and was feeling completely energized. He was beginning to think that this could be an adventure, rather than disaster.

He took the cup of tea that Dumbledore offered him, smiling as he added his own sugar. Amazing what wonders food could do to a person. He felt unexplainably safer when he was with the Headmaster, even though the man couldn't remember the minor detail of his existence.

"I trust you slept well, Mister Potter?" Albus asked him, once Harry had finished his second pastry and was beginning on his third. Harry's mind flashed to Vole, and his eyebrow rose without his meaning for it to. Dumbledore seemed to understand what he was thinking, and amusement twinkled from his eyes.

"I did." Harry replied honestly, "until about three in the morning. I felt like I'd been sleeping for _ages_. I couldn't get back to sleep."

Remus grunted from besides him, making the teenager jump. It seemed that the werewolf had tuned back into the conversation from whatever train of thought he'd been pursuing. Dumbledore looked at Remus curiously.

"I barely dare belief that you have _already _formulated a theory as to the identity of our visitor?" Dumbledore prodded, having noticed Remus' withdrawn and thoughtful behavior.

Harry unconsciously bristled at the insinuation that he wasn't who he said he was, but relaxed as he realized that he had admitted the same possibility to himself only a few hours ago. He turned to look at Remus as well, and was surprised to see a look close to glee masquerading as 'careful thought' on his old professor's face.

Remus nodded, although both the Headmaster could see the tiniest amount of uncertainly beyond the confident action. "I believe, Headmaster, that Harry is exactly who he says he is. That we have Harry Potter sitting right next to us!" he said, his voice excited rather than nervous. It seemed he was going for the dramatic unveiling of his take on the situation.

Albus Dumbledore narrowed his eyes in thought. Clearly Remus was not referring to the Harry Potter whom had attended Hogwarts; otherwise the man would have his wand twitching in his hand. The light in his friend's eyes showed that the man thought whatever had happened was magnificent, rather than malicious.

Albus still didn't quite understand.

"You think that perhaps his parents are not James and Lily? Or that he has obliviated himself?"

Remus was looking smug enough to burst, while Harry's face had suddenly frozen.

"Wait a minute! You _do _know me! You just admitted that you know me!" he frantically said, head swiveling from the Headmaster to Remus furiously and accusingly. The portraits on the wall were watching him with varying levels of curiosity and disgust. He registered that he couldn't see Vole anywhere before immediately dismissing it in favor of looking at Dumbledore bewilderedly.

There was a silence again, in which neither Remus nor Dumbledore seemed to want to speak. An unnamed portrait coughed, and eventually the Headmaster sighed.

"Harry Potter is not someone I would describe myself of _knowing_." Albus said, watching the teenager carefully. "But I know enough of him to correctly assume that you are not he."

Harry scoffed at the very idea.

"Of _course _I'm Harry Potter." He paused a moment, before lifting his fringe. "Scar and all!"

_Whoa_. He pulled back as both the Headmaster and Remus leaned in to have a look at the curse-scar. He let his bangs fall back down quickly, giving the both of them strange looks. That fear was bubbling through his stomach again.

"Boy-who-lived and all that?" he tried tentatively.

Neither of their faces showed any recognition.

"Harry, can we see that scar again?" Remus asked from his left, and the Headmaster nodded solemnly. "It could help us find out exactly who you are."

That was just too much for Harry.

"What do you _mean '_it could help us find out exactly who you are'?! I've had it since I was a _baby _professor, when _Voldemort _attacked me!" Remus flinched even harder than he had before at the absolute hatred inflected in Harry's voice, while Albus' eyes took on an intensity that would have been enough to cut through glass. "If you know 'Harry Potter' at all," Harry's voice clearly showed who _he _thought the imposter was, "then you'd know _exactly _how I got this scar, and exactly what it means."

Harry was snarling with confusion, and he gestured angrily towards to cupboard where the Headmaster kept his pensieve. He folded his arms furiously, eyes still snapping angrily at the room in general, and grew quiet, carefully watching the two Professors.

Nobody said anything for a few moments.

Remus glanced at the Headmaster, and, seeing that the older man had no intention of breaking the uncomfortable silence, turned to the teenager. The boy's anger had slowly drained away so that he was looking more and more confused by the second.

"Harry Potter was never cursed when he was a baby." Remus said with a sigh, "and Voldemort never got within a hundred yards of him." His eyes darkened considerably, and his voice lowered into a gravelly and angry growl. "Not until later, that is."

Harry shut his eyes painfully. He was beyond the point of thinking that if he closed his eyes and pinched himself he would wake up, but he found some relief in the darkness anyway. He took a deep breathe to calm himself. He just had to get through this. If he could get through this then it would all be okay – everything would go back to normal. He just needed to survive this. Panicking would not help him in any way. Neither would throwing things at the Headmaster's walls.

"I don't understand." He opened his eyes to the pitying faces of Remus and the Headmaster.

"Nor do I, my boy. Nor do I." Albus turned to Remus expectantly, "however I believe that Mr. Lupin has something of an answer?"

Remus blushed, but nodded, more confident than before. He looked between Harry and the Headmaster one last time, before beginning to speak.

"The more I hear about the circumstances, the more I'm convinced it's true. I was thinking on the way here this morning, Headmaster, that if the world truly was as Harry here seems to remember it, it's a much nicer place than what it's like here. Then I realized what I'd just thought: a world!" he paused in excitement, nodding to the other two in the room eagerly.

"Another world where Harry Potter didn't do the things that he did here – where he went, for some reason, on a quest for horcrux's with you, Headmaster. Where he played tricks on his parents, and me and Sirius, even Peter. Because that's what he said – " Remus gestured towards Harry, whose eyes had very suddenly grown into the size of saucers. He started coughing suddenly, cutting Remus off, apparently having forgotten to breathe. There were just so many things wrong with what Remus had just said Harry lost track of them.

The two adults were watching him carefully, although Albus had a speculative look on his face, clearly weighing up what Remus had said so far.

"I _never _said that." Harry cried to Remus, shaking his head angrily.

"But – " the werewolf began, only to be cut off by Harry again.

"I'd _never _say that!" Harry continued, becoming hysterical. Remus looked incredibly confused, while Dumbledore's face was devoid of anything for the first time since Harry had seen him that morning. He turned to Remus and motioned for the werewolf to continue.

Remus gave Harry one more confused look, before picking up where he had left off.

"Well, um, a world like that. Where things were different. Imagine if Harry came from an… an… _alternate _world! I've heard of the hypothesis before, of course. They're unreasonably common among muggles. Related to their 'chaos theory' as best can be described. One event – tiny, tiny – can change _everything_." Remus finished up, picking up the momentum and confidence he'd lost at the interruption.

Albus' eyes had lit up with understanding.

"It is a curse, perhaps, that after so many years alive in this world such an incredibly novel concept would never have occurred to me. We are very lucky, Remus, that you are such an unconventional thinker."

Harry was still looking confused, although his face had transformed so that it was stuck somewhere between resigned, hopeful, disbelieving and relieved.

"You think I come from a different world?" he asked; just to be sure he understood exactly what was being said.

He didn't understand exactly what was being said, of course. He had no idea about whether what Remus had just proposed was possible or not. He didn't really care. His mind was still on thoughts of his parents, Sirius… Professor Lupin was right. A world where they could be together and he need never have been marked by Voldemort would be a _good _world.

Remus nodded eagerly in response to his question, while Dumbledore's eyes continued to twinkle away.

_Another world…_ that _would_ explain a lot of what had happened to him lately, of course: the differences in everyone he'd met, the fact that nobody could remember him (or the him that he was, there seemed to be some confusion about another 'Harry Potter'). Oh but wait, his mind suddenly choked out, _wait, wait, wait…_

"If you think I got here through apparating," he said slowly, working this new theory through with the timeline in his mind. It was making sense, of course; a mistake in apparation meant he'd landed exactly where he'd indented to… only another dimension across. "Then what about Professor Dumbledore?"

Harry looked up at the other two wizards, wishing that just for once his life could be easy. He'd taken an instant shine to Remus' rather impressive 'alternate world' theory, but he still found himself longing for stability that most people took for granted.

"Harry, I will admit that up until this point, I had not given much thought to the eventuation that you were, indeed, who you say you are. I did not think that your memories would carry, if they were truly planted, any value." Dumbledore began softly. "So now I feel it would be best for you to tell Remus and myself exactly what circumstances led up to your unfortunate 'misapparation'."

Harry winced, images of walking dead and fire flashing through his mind. He didn't really feel like going over everything that had happened to him for the last few days, not in the amount of detail that the Headmaster would expect. A lot of what had happened he still didn't understand – that potion, for one.

But he was being silly. Dumbledore needed to know, because it was clearly very important. _From this point on, _he thought, _every detail is important._

With a sigh that shuddered through his body, Harry told Remus and Dumbledore exactly what had happened on the lead up to his disastrous attempt at apparation. When he came to the potion, and the effects it had upon consumption, Dumbledore frowned knowingly while Remus shuddered. He mentioned his own smeared blood sacrifice as they had left the cave, Harry half dragging the Professor, and was interrupted only to ask that this wound had been dealt with.

"Then he said… said that it was okay, _because I was there_. Like that meant I couldn't stuff up or anything… but I did, and he was so sick!" Harry suddenly felt horrified. He'd been focused on worrying about exactly what was going on around him – at the sudden and strange reactions his presence was receiving – he had almost completely forgotten about the Headmaster and the condition he had last been in.

It had been alright yesterday, because he'd thought that the man in front of him was the very same one who had battled the inferi with fire.

Remus' theory shattered that illusion well and truly. Somewhere, Harry had left Albus Dumbledore (a man whom he very much admired) injured and unwell.

It felt as though his heart had very suddenly turned to lead, and was determinedly moving downwards in his chest.

The Dumbledore across from his had a look of clear fascination spread across his face.

"Was there any trace of… my counterpart when you awoke?" He asked cautiously, old face crinkled with something that was closer to curiosity than worry.

Harry shook his head bleakly.

"Do you think that I… lost him?" Harry asked, his face showing his desperation for Dumbledore to answer negatively. Losing Albus Dumbledore. What a joke. If it wasn't so terrible it would be terribly funny.

There was a pregnant pause in the office. Remus was looking reserved, while Albus was carefully considering the young man in front of him. Harry was uncertain what the Headmaster saw when he looked, as he did, with such intensity at his students (or maybe it was just reserved for Harry) but he was quite sure that whatever it was, it was a skill that was unique to Albus Dumbledore.

"If my counterpart trusted your abilities so implicitly, Mister Potter, who am I to question his judgment? I have confidence that you have by no means 'lost' my counterpart. There are many explanations as to why I was not there when you awoke in this world. I believe it is merely a case of waiting until we are aware of what they are." He paused to smile benignly at Harry as the teenager deflated in relief. "If you were able to make it into this 'reality' then I have faith that you were able to bring the Albus Dumbledore of your world."

Remus was nodding at the unspoken logic in the Headmasters statement.

"Mister Potter," he said, to get the young mans attention.

Harry looked startled for a moment as he turned to his ex-professor. "You can call me Harry, um, Professor Lupin." He said, blushing slightly at the twinkle in the Headmasters eyes.

Remus was still getting used to this new Harry Potter. He'd heard the phrase 'wolf in sheep's clothing', but he rather thought it was the exact opposite with the young man sitting besides him. He shuddered to think of the disaster that could have been caused in Harry's world had the situation been reversed, and had the Harry of this world traveled to the world of the young man before him.

"Well then it's Remus, of course." He smiled at the surprised look in the teenagers eyes. It was as if he had expected Remus to call him by his name, but not to be offered the same courtesy in return. "I've never been a professor." Remus confessed.

Harry looked confused.

"But who was the Defense Professor in my third year? Uh, that is, '93."

Remus started to laugh instantly, as he realized what Harry was asking. Harry looked at the Headmaster, to see if he would explain the werewolf's chuckles, but Dumbledore had that infernal twinkle sparkling away in his own private amusement.

Harry was not amused to find that even the portraits were wearing satisfied smirks.

"I guess you mean that where you come from you have different Professors for defense each year?" Remus asked, still looking like the cat that got the cream.

Harry instantly realized what he was saying. "You _fixed _it?"

"Not so much fixed it, my boy, as worked around it." Dumbledore answered. "It was an interesting curse. And not easily tricked. The caster certainly knew what he was doing – he had a very well hidden focus."

"Voldemort." Harry sneered. He had perked up at the mention of a 'focus', sure that he'd been learning about them recently in one of his classes. Remus and the Headmaster were both giving him bemused looks, and Harry felt it was appropriate recompense for laughing at him.

"Indeed." Dumbledore said thoughtfully.

None of them spoke as they all considered their separate thoughts. Harry was thinking about exactly how (and why) the Professors had broken the curse in this world, where they remained oblivious in his own. Remus was trying to understand why a teenager such as Harry was privy to such a well-kept secret as the curse Tom Riddle had laid upon the school years before. Dumbledore was wondering when he would have the pleasure of meeting himself.

The silence stretched long enough for Harry to feel self-conscious breaking it, so he waited for either of the adults to say something. Neither of them looked like they would be so inclined any time soon.

Maybe it was time for a little introspective thought then.

An alternate world.

It certainly explained a lot.

But what he needed to be thinking about now was the future. How he could get back. How he could find his own Dumbledore. Perhaps not in that order, though.

He had a horribly nagging suspicion that getting home would not be nearly as easy as he was wishing it could be.

This was going to mean he would have to stay in this strange world for a little (and possibly a lot) longer. Harry started to frown as he thought about the situation. Dumbledore had been dropping hints about his alternate self that were as heavy as elephants. There was that feeling again, invading his stomach with lead cannon balls and sinking just as fast.

Harry forgot he wasn't speaking until someone else did, caught up in his suddenly forbidding thoughts as he was.

"Professor, what is my other self like?"

The look on Remus' face, if not Dumbledore's, was enough to tell Harry that his question had hit some invisible bull's-eye. Which meant either two things: Harry's other self was dead (which seemed unlikely, considering they had thought for a while that he was him), or was a bad, bad boy.

"Ah, Harry, my boy." Dumbledore said regretfully. "Now that is not that the million galleon question?"

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**_Happy New Year to everyone!! May 2007 be the year to yield your hearts desires! Much love to you all._**


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